2012-12-07 Momentary Loss of Control
A large, gaudy purple neon sign reads "OTEL". That is, until the letter M flickers into being every so often, causing said sign to now read "MOTEL". Beneath it, in campy neon yellow script, is the word "Vacancy!" followed by "Free HBO". The two story, classic strip style motel lies on a two lane highway far outside New York City, and is mostly used by truckers, vagabonds and travelers who want to avoid the Interstates and the Highway Patrol. The parking lot is larger than the hotel itself, in order to accommodate for the semi trucks that are parked there. Inside room 216, Shift sits cross legged on the floor, his tight black costume worn at all times in case the need to use his mutant powers is needed. Overtop of this, however, he wears a pair of black jeans and a ribbed maroon t-shirt, which was purchased from the truck stop a quarter mile south of the motel. Strewn about on the floor all around him are wires, circuit boards, and the torn apart pieces of three CB Radios, also purchased from the truck stop. The room is tinted purple from the OTEL sign outside, and the only noise comes from the television, which is currently tuned in to the latest edition of WWE Smackdown. Shift has taken a break from his tinkering with the radios, only to stare at the television, dumbfounded. His mouth is slightly ajar as he watches the show, utterly confused at how people might consider it entertainment. Yep. Domino's friends get the best treatment in the world. Okay, so it makes more sense strategically than from the viewpoint of creature comforts and she's not exactly made of money these days, particularly with how quickly she's been going through cars. Fortunately, the universe provides. Especially if your name starts in D and ends in O. The parking lot that served as a grave for her Nissan sedan had plenty of other options to pick through, including a navy blue SUV complete with a trailer on the back. Horrible for mileage, but the price was right. Plus, that trailer is exactly what she needed to retrieve a certain lost bike from the side of the road before it disappeared forever. True, she said that contact would be kept to a minimum. But, she also comped this motel room outside of the city. Having some transportation is important, and she did kind of wreck Shift's only ride the other night. Call her return visit a trust-building exercise, twirling the bike's key around one finger and catching it into her palm before she raps on the outside of the door. "It's me, Kwa," comes the muffled voice from outside. Just so you don't decide to get all jumpy on her. With an eyeball pressed to the tiny peep hole in the motel door, Kwabena is quickly able to determine that it is, indeed, Domino who is waiting outside. If there are any others with her, he'll just have to deal with them, after he's finished dealing with her. He hopes it doesn't come to that. The door opens up, and the African's eyes shift from side to side, confirming that you're alone. He steps aside so that you may enter, and doesn't speak until the door is closed behind. He seems more relaxed than before... fortunately for both, the nanites in his body delivered their last dose over four hours ago, so he's neither high, nor coming down, nor in need of another dose. A half grin curls across his face, and he steps aside with arms folded over his chest for a moment. "Come to say hi, or do you have good news for me?" There's a chance, of course, that it's bad news. There's a chance that he's about to be cut off, or worse, that you've come to 'deal with him'. If that's the case, he's going to need a beer. Turning away, Kwabena opens the small refrigerator next to the television, and pulls out two beers. His choices, of course, were limited to what was offered by the truck stop, but he did his best, selecting the one six pack of craft beer brewed not far away, in Brooklyn. There's a crackling sound that precedes the popping of both bottle caps. Those iron fists come in handy. Dom's ready to get straight down to business until she's given that question. And a beer. Almost like 'old' times between these two, already. Aside from the fact that you're still being shut into a cheap closet and she's lost some of her friendliness, which had already been in alarmingly short supply. "You could call it good," she offers while tossing the keys to your bike up into the air with a soft, musical note of chiming metal. "Still no closer to figuring out what our metal pal put into you, but you can go back to being mobile instead of watching this crap," she offers almost as a suggestion while motioning toward the TV. "This..isn't going on your tab, is it..?" She makes her best attempt not to grimace at the less than stellar brew in her hand. It's a drink, it's a token of camraderie. It's more about the gesture and the symbolism than the watered down crud they're trying to pass off as being alcohol inside of it. "It's looking like Eliza there isn't going to have the necessary tech nor skill to figure things out so I've got another lead to follow up on. If that carries through, I'm going to need to collect you. Try to be accessible for the next forty-eight hours." The keys are snatched out of the air with practiced ease, and he studies them for a few long moments. Turning them over in his hand reveals that they are, indeed, the keys to his bike. He looks back up at you with an appreciation in his eye, before pocketing the keys in his jeans pocket. Then, he eyes the television, and the look of appreciation twists into a scowl. "Room 210," he clarifies, assuring you that no, this is not on your bill. "How can you Americans watch dis crap?" he asks. "Do you really tink dis is entatainment?" He shakes his head and grabs the remote, switching the television to another channel. The background noise is good - it would keep any spying eyes from being able to hear their conversation. Walking back across the room, he lifts the beer and takes a good healthy swig, for the only way to drink crap is to drink it fast. "I can do forty-eight hours," he offers, before motioning about at the mess he's made. "I have been working on dis here jamming device, but I need some few tings to complete it. I don't suppose you have a Pelson reverse polariza', or perhaps some few fourteen ohm transistah's I could borrow?" His eyebrow perks up curiously. Dom relaxes slightly when it's verified that she's not footing the bill for that awful stuff, though she still has to question your sanity on choosing to have that channel on in the first place. "Don't lump me in with the masses, kid. I don't touch that stuff. Most of the human race is well beyond saving, anyway." Besides, now there's something much more interesting to talk about. "What happened to your voice? The accent," she adds with a slight motion of her hand. It's a lot more noticeable than it had been before. The gutted radios on the room are another point of interest waiting its turn for her to openly question, something which you beat her to. "Entering a science faire?" In the end, all she can do is shake her head. "None of the above, whatever the hell that stuff is. Go fish." At least you're keeping yourself busy, and (hopefully) out of trouble. "Hey. How much of your gear did you lose during the raid?" "Well, dat is good," answers Kwabena. "I tink I have been watching dis for the last two hou'as, and I still cannot undastand why it even exists. Americans are so weird." The subject of professional wrestling is left to rot, for now, the television simply shows the national news. Currently, the story is covering news of an abduction in Gotham City of the famed police Commissioner, Jim Gordon. "I don't know what you're talking about," he answers. "My voice is normah. Oh! De accent!" He chuckles slightly and gestures about with his beer. "It gets hardah to undastand if I am not around people. You should be glad you didn't know me when I first came here." He crouches down near the aforementioned science fair, studying it all curiously. "Dis device should jam any outbound frequencies. Just in case we don't find out what dese nanites are doing. Howevah, I have not turned it on, because I don't know if the jamming device would draw undue attention." He looks back up at you as he stands, offering a shrug. "I've been bored." Turning, Kwabena makes his way toward a small table near the front door. He leans upon it and takes a long drink of the beer while peering out from behind the blinds, watching their surroundings carefully for a moment. "The only gear I took with me was de air mask and transmittah given to us by SHIELD. I do not tink it survived the fall." He looks back over toward you with curiosity, though his expression seems a bit distracted, as if there was something else on his mind. "Why?" When the channel is changed and news of Jim Gordon's capture comes on, Domino quickly turns toward the screen and stares with hardened eyes for a while. There's no transition period, one second she's paying attention to you, the next moment you may as well not exist in her world. After zoning out for a period she looks back to you, a frown still lingering upon her face. "The accent, yeah." She's not way late in confirming that, or anything. "Be real good if it works as intended. Glad to see you're not throwing your time away." This science project is mercenary approved. She's staring at the TV again, practically forgetting the drink in her hand. However, moving completely on automation, she reaches beneath her trench and pulls out that large FNP-45 handgun, giving it an absent-minded flick around her index finger until she's holding it by the barrel rather than the grip. All she does with it is set it on top of the tube. "Lost my guns on that job." Good thing they were on loan from SHIELD, she didn't technically lose any of -her- toys. "That, and I figure it's about time you joined the rest of us in this century." Because let's face it, your last sidearm was designed a good hundred and one years ago. Get with the times, man! Looking across at the TV, Kwabena considers asking if you know that guy, but decides to let it go. Another job, most likely, and irrelevant. "It'll work," he confirms. "But if I am... ah, -transmitting- something, suddenly shutting it off by jamming all signals would be like a big siren going off. 'Hey! Von Doom! We are right here, at dis piece of shit motel in bum fuck Egypt!" Walking away from the window after giving it one last inspection, Kwabena takes the handgun and inspects it all around. It's notable that he seems to know what he's doing, keeping the barrel pointed away from either of them as he inspects it. "I have a hard time with handguns," he admits. "Kind of hard to keep hold when I... well. You know." He sets the gun back on top of the television, then takes another swig of his beer before settling a more severe eye upon you. "So. You tink it is safe to discuss what happened at Latveria? Wit more detail, I mean." "Even that's useful," Domino points out. "If you're ready to do this next run with us you can be part of the initial distraction, could prove to be quite handy." She hesitates there before following up with a gentle sigh, finally looking away from the news broadcast. It's little that she didn't already know about, but darnit if it isn't complicating things on her end. "No hard feelings if it never gets seen again," she reassures you about that pistol. "Never liked the grip on that one. So long as you're out here, you may as well have some offensive options." Not that she included the suppressor in the deal, you can find your own one of those. When the next question is raised she takes it upon herself to sit on the dresser, doing so gently in case it decides that the added weight is more than it can bear. "Depends on what it is you're wanting to know." Not the most helpful of responses, but it's a step up from 'no.' "I have to be very careful," he answers with a most severe tone. "If I go back dere for any otha' reason otha' than to get more dope, we had bettah be damn sure I don't get captah'ed. I don't tink Doom would let me walk out a second time. I hope you undahstand what I mean." With regard to the handgun. Kwabena merely offers a half-cocked smile. "Well, I appreciate it. Some of tha' people at dis place are real freaks. I have already seen -three- drug deals and four hookah's prowling da parking lot alone." There's a beat. "No, I didn't get anything from tha drug dealers." He leans back against the wall, getting a bit more comfortable while taking another pull from the bottle. When he looks back at you, it is with a far more subdued and curious look. He seems to be studying you for a moment, trying to figure out where you're at in all of this, by the way your mannerisms have changed and so forth. What he finds is that you're very good at keeping it hidden. There's a slow nod of approval before he leans forward a bit, locking eyes with you while speaking. "What happened, from -your- perspective." He shakes his head from side to side, as if warning her not to hold anything back. "Tell me everything, Dom. I'll do you de same favah." "We all do, kid," Domino swiftly counters. The stakes in this one are pretty obvious, though you don't need to know about her turning down the initial call for help when she heard that others were planning on going back to Latveria on their account. It's old news, anyway. She's on the team, that's all that matters. When you assure her that you didn't buy anything she passes another critical look your way, merely stating "Good." No pat on the back, no offer for a cookie. No threat to beat you within an inch of your life, either. Not that it's really her business, but that's what allies do for one another. Sometimes. When they feel it's worth their effort. Then, there it is. -Everything.- There's no way Domino's going to tell you everything. No one needs to know about her past but herself. "Came to in a cell. Mister High and Mighty gave me the sales pitch. 'Join now or I'll break you and -then- you'll join.' You can guess which option I went with. Standard torture procedures. Wear 'em down physically and mentally, give them a way out that still benefits what you're going for. Wash, rinse, repeat. Think he expected me to break a lot sooner." Drug addicts, even former ones, are an interesting lot. They would give themselves more hell than any other person possibly good, and so, it's a very good thing that you don't offer him any pats on the back, cookies, or threats. Simple encouragement goes a far distance. However, interestingly enough, Kwabena's guilt over relapsing has all but disappeared. He's accepted that he was victimized, that Doom used one of his greatest weaknesses against him. He'd done everything he could to resist. He was over it. As over it as one might be with drug-inducing nanites swimming throughout one's body. And as if to prove the point, there's no response to your simple encouragement. It's just there, existing, then passing. Kwabena listens intently as you recount your experience in your own unique way. Had it not been such a heavy subject, he might have developed a smirk at the way you refer to Von Doom, but instead, he just leans there, watching, listening, and occasionally taking a pull from the bottle of beer. "But you nevah broke," he points out, lifting the nearly empty bottle in a mock salute. "At least not in the way he ahxpected." A slow nod of approval comes forward. "Well, for the recahd, I'm glad you didn't stay dead." Following another pull from the beer, Kwabena leans away from the wall and sets it down next to his cobalt-grey present, then begins a very subtle pace around the room until he's opposite Domino. "Came to in a cell. Then he showed me pictchah's of everyone else dying. Blink turning. He did waste no time. Knew my name, knew my history, everything. The kind of shit that is on record -nowhere-. Injected me with that junk, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. Somehow, he was keeping me from turning into smoke." He shakes his head. "I don't know how. But he kept dosing me and dosing me. If that had been normal street dope, it would have killed me." It sounds as if there's more, but he pauses, if only to give you time to react or ask for clarification. There isn't much encouragement when she flatly declares "I don't break,' either. The words are cold and dispassionate, the message as direct as it could possibly be. Doom found out for himself, which is what led her to being here. It's all a crazy turn of events but one doesn't tend to do themselves many favors by questioning why fate works out the way that it does. Domino will accept her crappy beer and the extra scars that have been added to her body and call it a day. There aren't many alternate options. When you take your turn she continues to be silent, though she's gone back to watching you despite her head being bowed forward. "Probably the same recording of Blink that he showed to me. He seemed to take a lot of pride in that." A tiny nod follows, "He knew way more about me than he had any right to, as well. He must have gotten a lot of it through word of mouth, there aren't records for everything that he had to work with. How he managed to pull so much info on a group of us so quickly, I don't know." There's more from her perspective, as well. Not just in what happened to her while in Doom's care. There's a matter eating away at the back of her thoughts about how much you had been put through, how far you had fallen. Maybe it hadn't been Dom's fault that you were involved, but she's definitely responsible for a lot of it. That's one of the few things she has to share with Betsy. If not for those two, you never would have ended up in this situation. Maybe Dom could have made you stronger, given you more of a fighting chance before this all went down. Or, maybe she should have just left you be and never gotten you involved from the start. Either way, it's too late now. She's responsible for enough of this to weigh down on her conscience. "Maybe it would be best if you didn't come back with us," she states out of the blue. "Next time, I won't break as easily either," answers Kwabena. "When I told you Ghanaians don't torture each othah, I was trying to explain how it was a situation I was not prepared for. I could be ashamed of it, but what's the point? The past is the past." He listens carefully when you take a turn to talk about Blink and the knowledge Doom seemed to possess about you. Knowledge nobody should have acquired. "Resources," he answers. "It's only logicahl. No one has that kind of info without resources. He'd probably already been learning about us after Gotham. I wouldn't sweat it, Dom. I think he proved to us how powahful he is, we have to keep dat in mind before we make our next move." As he speaks, he moves away from the wall to grab his beer, only to take a drink of it while making back to his perch. A certain heaviness takes him when you suggest that he might consider staying out. He doesn't acknowledge aside from the darkness that comes over his expression, one he tries to conceal with an icy stare and a final, definitive pull from the bottle of cheap beer. "I may not have a choice," he answers at last. "Dat broody guy, the one who brought Eliza. He says he knows people who can help. What if dey can't? What if de nanites run out of juice, and my time runs out? I may have to go back to him." He fixes you with a severe expression and claims, "You all may be rescuing me anyway. If dat happens, you be damned sure I'll go with you fighting. He won't snare me again." He speaks with such conviction that it's clear something changed, perhaps for the better. His skin is thicker, perhaps not as thick as his mutation is able to make it in actuality, but he's learned a valuable lesson and in solitude, has wrestled it into some resemblance of strength. More importantly, he has earned a badge of valor in his spirit, and is emerging from the fire tempered into something harder than steel. There's one more thing he must do, however, for that transformation to stick. Setting the empty bottle down, Kwabena settles his steely eyes upon you. "You asked me about Betsy." A pause fills the room, supplanted just so by the way his chest rises and falls with an emboldening breath. "On dat, on her, there is someting you need to know. Doom didn't kill her." He fails to look away, waiting until he's quite sure he has not only your attention, but your eyes as well. "It was me." Yeah. Sure. The past is the past. Dom would like to believe that as well. As much as she tries to make it work out that way, as much as she tries to forget about her own, it can only be pushed aside for so long. Demons -always- come back to haunt a person. Demons like the ones out on the west coast that she needs to follow up on. She's gotta get you cleaned up and back in order soon if you're ever going to be a part of that. Maybe you shouldn't be. She can't keep you from going back to Latveria, but she -can- keep you from getting mixed up in her personal business. Her mind is made up before she's fully processed the dilemma. She's on her own. As per the norm. "Remember how adamant we were about him not catching us the first time," Domino reminds you. "If he wants to, we can't really prevent it." Hopefully it won't come to that. Ever. Unfortunately, it does come to something else before Doom ever gets another crack and destroying the two. When you finally bring up Betsy's name, Dom's full attention is back to you. That's a name which has glued so many loose pieces together for so many people, even when she's not directly involved. If not for Betsy, Wolverine wouldn't have talked to her about this rescue op. There may not have -been- a rescue op. To find out that one of the individuals they were planning on rescuing is responsible for killing the other mutant woman is unsettling, to say the least. Frankly, Domino's not sure what to do with this information. It starts with poor impulse control. With lightning speed and precision she closes the gap and sends a closed fist straight for your face. Unlike when she had been sparring with you, no warning is forthcoming. Nothing is held back. Inside of that wiry, scarred albino body is a sharply honed machine that moves faster than humans ever could, backed with years of intense martial arts training. Even then, she never moves in a way that another could predict. Very few ever truly see her coming when she doesn't want them to. In truth, Kwabena had prepared for this. He hadn't spent his time in solitude watching WWE Smackdown or bending circuitry. The truth had to come out, and it had to be discussed. It had to be a part of the plan, for should it be revealed during the operation, the operation would fall apart. He doesn't move, because he simply doesn't have time to. Unfortunately for you, your fist goes right through his face. A poof of black smoke replaces his head, and in the blink of an eye, it's back together again unlike poor Humpty Dumpty. There's no momentum to stop your fist, which gives him at least a momentary advantage. What he does with it is... interesting. Kwabena takes a step to the side, scrambling away from you and creating at least some marginal distance. "Is that it?" he asks. "No choice words, no guns?" He throws his arms out to the side, glowering at you now. "Go ahead, Dom. Take another shot. I have plenty of time for you to work it out." He doesn't go for the gun, nor does he advance upon you. He just stands there, arms outstretched, never once looking away. The television rambles on and on about some political nonsense in the background, before switching to a commercial for Oceanic Airlines. There's no way you should have had the chance to pull your smokescreen act on her. Not with how your training had been before leaving for Latveria. She never prepared you for working in this sort of scenario. That fist turns into an open palm before slapping against the wall where your head -should- have been, though it's immediately followed by her spinning around and throwing a foot toward you, next. Then she goes for center mass, trying to grab and throw you across the room. Formal combat training will only go so far against Domino, her motions in a constant state of flux that lends a reckless approach to her attacks. Of course, none of that matters much if you simply turn to smoke at the first hint of danger. It's like fighting a ghost, and one thing she -does not like- is something that refuses to react when she strikes it. It doesn't help that in her ears you're just taunting her about it all. The foot lands a meaty strike, and he's easily grabbed. Kwabena gives forth a grunt but doesn't resist, letting you heave his weight around until he's soaring through the air, only to land right against the television. The tube explodes and the box crackles, while the gun sitting atop it clatters to the floor and out of sight, either behind the dresser or inside the television. However, Kwabena's body had poofed into black smoke upon impact, and when it reforms, he's half standing, half leaning against the dresser. "I didn't know you had formed such a bond with her," he growls while righting himself. He takes another step to the side, putting himself in front of the bathroom door before throwing out a hand and gesturing with his fingers for you to advance. "Come on. How angry are you? Angrier than me?" -There- it goes. Feeling good, solid, -proper- strikes landing upon you are just what Dom's looking for. That distracting TV is now toast, maybe you'll even find those missing components among the wreckage. When you reappear she doesn't lash out any further, though there's still -something- in her system, needing to come out. "We didn't," she nearly growls back in a dangerous tone. "-You- two did. She was our leader. She was -your- friend. She was the reason why talk of a rescue was underway. And you -killed- her. It's not me you've gotta be worried about, kid. It's Wolverine." Domino turns away from you and takes a turn to engage in some heavy room pacing. Her conclusion doesn't take long to be reached. "-Fuck!-" "This whole thing has been -nothing- but a disaster, you kids weren't ready for this." And she knew enough, and still she said nothing. What happens now? More lies, more deceit. She knows the truth, and she can't tell Logan. Can't tell -anyone.- All of these people are going to be risking their lives for someone that's no longer a part of this world, and all she can do is follow alongside them and allow it to happen. You had lost control, -you- took Betsy's life, but could Domino blame you for it, or blame others for leading you down this path? The whole matter just wants to get shoved into a tiny, steel-lined box, locked up tight, and get pushed deep into the back of her memories along with so many other horrid truths. The pooch is officially screwed on this job. As is her -other- job, which the news had been all too happy to rub in her face. "Whatever. Fuck this. I'm out of here." Wolverine. So that was his name. Kwabena circles away from the bathroom door and oddly enough puts him between you and the door leading out of the motel room. Not that it was the only way out, but the symbolism is there. "Do you not tink dat the pain tormented me every day I was in dat prison?" His words come with a growl, a voice filled with ire. "Do you not tink I relived the moment over and over again until I walked away, because I could not stay dere any longer?" A crackling noise fills the space between Kwabena's words, while his entire body begins to glisten and pop with the hardening of flesh and bone. It's his eyes, though, that are most revealing. A tempered malice is inside of them, but it is not aimed at you, nor is it the result of unattended feelings. No, he has had plenty of time to tend to his feelings. "I am not letting you out of here, Domino," he warns. "Not until you stop and think dis through." His motions are slowed just a touch by the hardening of his flesh, but it's surprising how agile he remains in spite of his body's iron condition. An arm raises and points toward you, palm outstretched as if to suggest you stay put. "Now. Are you ready to listen? Are you ready to take dat -bastard's- lies and manipulat'ons, and swallow dem like da bitter pill dat dey are? Or will you use your head? Because I know you got a good one, and I'll be -damned- if you walk away like dis." More crackling resumes in the silence following his angry words, but if you've got the sense or strength to look him in the eye, you might discern the measure of his intent. For he has finally stopped believing in the mirage that surrounded him in Latveria, whether for the sake of suffering grief or the wisdom of possibility; possibility that the bullet he'd put through Betsy's forehead was nothing more than another of Victor Von Doom's cleverly spun lies. Seriously. You're going to try and stop her from leaving? That's the sort of thing that never, ever, ends well with Domino. "I'm sure it has, but we've nothing left to talk about, kid." What's done is done, and she's not about to share her inner feelings over this whole convoluted mess with you. Then there's that crackling, hardening of your skin. And you hold an arm out in her direction. Lucky her. In an instant she reaches for your arm, having only one goal in mind. She wants to drop your ass onto the floor, fast and hard. It's not about getting past you so she can leave, that would still be easy. It's all about making a point. WHAM! -Christ- you put on weight quickly..! Dom wasn't expecting that, it almost off-balances her. Not enough that she can't have two sidearms out and aimed straight down at your face before you can come back to your senses, fingers on triggers and thumbs on hammers. "We didn't go over this in training, so consider this your one and only lesson," Domino reviles. "Don't ever get in my way." She doesn't give the words a chance to properly sink in before she turns away from you, returning her guns to their holsters without another thought toward the matter. "I'm listening, kid. Make it good, I don't extend this offer to many." Ah, hell. That beer tasted awful before, she doubts it's improved any after warming up a few degrees. Still, if she doesn't do something with her hands then something -else- is likely to get torn apart. So long as there's still liquid in that bottle she'll allow it to serve as her anchor to this room. While she could just chug the whole thing, honestly it tastes bad enough that staying to listen seems like a better alternative. When he strikes the ground, the floor gets dented. It's a good thing he'd fallen upon a place where one of the I-beams passes through beneath, or else he just might have been thrown through to the first floor. Kwabena glowers up at you while the guns are aimed at his face, and he's tempted to smirk, but he doesn't. His eyes look down the weapons to your hands, then your forearms, then back to your face again. He's a half second away from swinging his legs around to take out your arms, which could have ended very poorly for you, but you lower the guns. That was good. Luck on your side, perhaps? A voice filters up from the room downstairs. "Jesus Christ! Cut it out, you fuckin' lunatics, I'm tryin'a sleep down here!" With the release of pent up air through his nose, Kwabena steadies himself and holds back his attack, only to rise from the floor with heavy footsteps. A Kwabena-shaped dent is left in the floorboards and carpet beneath him, but he disregards it, along with the sparking television over near the corner. "You're dead, Domino. Carol's dead. I'm dead. Betsy's dead. Evvvverybody's dead." The last two words are nearly sung, as if Shift was mocking Doctor Doom and his lies. However, when he speaks again, the growl has gone, only to be replaced by a softer tone touched with sarcasm. "And of course dey are, because when everybody's dead, who do you have left? Your -captor-. He tried to break you and failed. He tried to break me and succeeded. Who knows what happened with Carol and Betsy." Kwabena's fist comes down suddenly, smashing clean through a table nearby and leaving it in two splintered pieces. His lips are drawn back and his teeth exposed as he snarls through the motion. "But I'll be -damned- if I'll believe it!" he suddenly shouts. "I -won't- believe da silence of her voice! I -won't- believe dat da bullet was real, or dat she was real, or dat -any- of it was real!" Working very quickly to settle himself, Kwabena focuses his pent up anger into his body, causing his skin to harden even further. No longer does he have the appearance of a dark-skinned African, but rather, the appearance of a man whose muscles and flesh are made of coal-colored titanium. His voice seems to deepen evenly, as if it resonated through a hollow chamber rather than a human trachea. "If I killed her, den dere's only one way to know. We go dere, we find her, or we find a corpse. You can have your vengeance on me then, you can take your plasma gun and blow me away, I'll welcome it. But if not, if it was a lie, den we -owe it- to her, to dem, to -find dem- and -bring dem home-." His hand rises, only this time, it's outstretched in a gesture of peace. "You are full of shit, Dom, because we have -plenty- left to talk about. We have unfinished business in Latveria." He thrusts his hand again, as if trying to double down on his offer. Domino would be a fool to think that she's the only mutant that ever loses control sometimes. That, and when some mutants lose control it can be a damned scary thing. No more is it just her doing that leaves this room in utter disarray, with one simple motion you've added to it. She watches it happen, and does so without flinching. Inside, she's quickly taking notes. "The difference is that you were the one to kill her. What--by shooting her in the head? That's a helluva lot more concrete than taking Doom's word for it. I had written it off as psychological manipulation before, but if you're the one that did it..." Well. Kinda hard to imitate something like that, right? Then again, does she really need to remind herself about her life and impossible odds? It proves to be the critical sobering thought to pass through the albino's mind. Dead or alive, free or enslaved, Doom has succeeded. He disbanded the group, turned them on one another through any means necessary. Domino walked right into it. She can apologize later. Instead, she watches you some more. Then, she steps forward and reaches out, slowly this time, to lightly tap a fingertip against your hardened skin. "Welcome to the next stage of your own evolution." Normally she might make a remark about it being part of training and the bill would be in the mail, but she leaves it be for now. Humor has its place. That place is not in this awful motel. "Think you can pull yourself together as quickly as you can manifest your powers in new and interesting ways?" she challenges you. Closing his eyes, Kwabena breathes out slowly and steadily through his nose while calming himself. A series of quiet hissing sounds fill the room, as if the softening of his flesh and skin causes pent up air to actually be released from within. It takes a few long seconds, but eventually, he looks like normal again. When he opens his eyes, there's a tempered resilience that has formed. The next stage of his evolution, indeed. He lowers his arm, but the gesture was there. "I'll do my part in dat," he answers. "You do yours. Let's hope I'm clean, because I am going to need Wolverine and his friends' help to -get- clean." He shakes his head. "If dey cannot help me, den I will have to walk back into da lion's den, or die." He turns away from you now, only to step away from the door and once more peer out of the blinds that cover the front window. He has to step -around- the shattered table, but he manages. "He had me convinced dat she was responsible for it all, dat she had manipulated us and betrayed us," he explains. "He also had me so full of his dope dat I couldn't see or tink straight, but I remembered da gun, I remembered da triggah, I remembered her fall. -Dat- is what he wanted." Stepping away from the window, Shift makes a motion toward the door, before walking across the room to collect what's left of his torn apart CB Radios. While promptly stuffing them and his few other belongings into a black leather riding satchel. After a moment, he turns back around to face you, frowning. There is but a touch of grief in his eyes, but it's not for himself, nor is it for you. It's for Betsy. "Imagine da pain in her heart when she watched me killing her." He throws the satchel over his shoulder, then reaches for the leather jacket sitting on a table nearby. "Tink about it, Dom." He makes to leave, but before he goes, he remembers one thing. Turning back toward the shattered television, he reaches down and produces the handgun you'd provided. It gets stuffed away inside his jacket's deep pockets, then he turns back to you. "Dis place is compromised." Indeed, there are sirens in the distance. Category:Logs Category:RPLogs